


Hazy

by kitkatnip



Category: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn - Mark Twain, Adventures of Tom Sawyer - Mark Twain
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Deathfic, Gen, Grief/Mourning, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Why Did I Write This?, really angsty like whoa I am so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:52:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkatnip/pseuds/kitkatnip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hero’s story is always meant to end with glory and dignity, whether it’s closing with a chaste kiss from the rescued damsel or brave self-sacrifice in the line of duty. A hero’s story was always romantic and grand, never tragic and pitiful. For a boy like him, it was never meant to end this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hazy

**Author's Note:**

> Oh jeez, this is my first fic ever so I ask that you please be kind and respectful. This exists because it was to my knowledge that every fandom needed that one really, really sad fic where someone dies, so I decided to be the one to write it up. I tried my best to keep the characterization correct and to keep all the details as close to canon as I could, but there's a good chance something got messed up somewhere along the line. If there are any errors, be it in grammar, characterization, or anything else, please do not hesitate to tell me and I will do what I can to fix it. The story is a canon divergence that takes place after Tom Sawyer and before Huckleberry Finn. The title is from the song Hazy by Rosi Golan. Thank you and enjoy!

       The beginning of the end was very slow, practically unnoticeable unless you looked awful closely. It was peculiar and worrisome, but nothing very alarming. It began just as spring was giving way to summer; the skies were painted a clear blue dotted with white patches of fluff, crisp green grass bent easily beneath the pattering of bare feet, and the sweet harmonizing of the gurgling river with the tinkling laughter of childhood echoed heartily through the town of St. Petersburg and onward. On this day, there were two young boys fishing and talking by the river. Without a single doubt, these two would’ve looked at you as if you were crazy had you told them all was not right with the world on this picturesque day.

       “—and then the fancy-pants sissy went and started threat’nin to tell my Aunt Polly on me instead’a fightin’! I’m tellin’ you, Huck, I hain’t seen no bigger coward in all my days.”

       “Shucks Tom, lookit—you’re scarin’away all them fish now by how you’re talkin’. I told you ‘fore an’I’ll tells you again, fightin’ ain’t ever gonna solve nuthin’.”

       “How you talk, Huck Finn! Fightin’ solves lots of things. By n’ by, you didn’t see him anyways. That Alfred Temple, always walkin’ around so high and mighty. Why, if I didn’t want another lickin’ I’d sure give him a piece a’my mind.”

       Huck looked at his best friend and sighed with a small shake of his head. There was never any point in trying to argue with Tom Sawyer, even less so when his eyes were all lit up like a flame and his hands flew madly with gestures of exclamation with his voice was practically shouting to high heaven. He knew Tom was argumentative enough to start fighting with a door if he caught his finger in it and stubborn enough to outlive God trying to have the last word on something.

       As Tom continued to grumble on, Huck tuned him out in favor of watching the steady flow of water make its way down the twists and turns of the river. Because he was a boy of simple pleasures, Huck couldn’t think of a better day than this one—a perfect Saturday afternoon indeed. Even in his moods Tom was always good company, and the prettiness of everything else around them just about made up for the fact that he was scaring all the fish away. It wasn’t until the grumbling faded and the only sound remaining was of the hum of water and crickets that Huckleberry flicked the brim of his hat up and brushed his bangs from his eyes, taking his attention away from fishing to look at his friend.

       It was very unusual for Tom to be silent for any significant period of time. He was always going on about something, talking about all sorts of people, places, and things, and telling all kinds of stories. Heck, even when he was pensively in thought he would be muttering to himself under his breath trying to figure things out. Seeing his friend so quiet and unmoving made Huck slightly uneasy.

       “Tom? What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”

       The curly-haired boy immediately turned to Huck, a slight cringe etched across his features along with a furrow in his brow.

       “Whadda you talkin’ about, Hucky?” He cleared his throat a bit, his voice sounding a bit groggy as if he’d just woken up from sleep.

       “Yous’ awful quiet. Tain't like you, it’s worryin’ me.” The earnestness in Huck’s voice was prominent and his eyes shone with concern.

       “Aw, quit your worryin’. My head just hurts a bit is all, nothin’ more,” Tom said with a slight quirk of his mouth. It was far more akin to a grimace than a smile of reassurance. Noting the uncertainty remaining on Huck’s face, he added after a moment’s pause, “I prob’ly just need to sleep more or somethin’ and I’ll be fine. Though maybe if I’m lucky and it still hurts, Aunt Polly will let me stay home from Church tomorrow and if ‘m even luckier, school on Monday.” The grin that followed was genuine and filled to the brim with a devilish mischief that only Tom Sawyer could muster. Almost all traces of uncertainty melted off Huck’s face as he contentedly accepted what Tom had said and decided not to think about it anymore, lest he started worrying himself to death over nothing.

       Not too long after, the sun began to sink lower into the horizon and the two boys began to gather themselves up and set out for home. As they walked through the forest making their way back to town, Tom continually stumbled on his feet and nearly fell three times, all the while making nothing of it. By the fourth time Tom all but met the ground, Huck grabbed him by the arm and made him stand up-right, the uneasiness in his belly coming back in waves.

       “Sawyer, what the heck is wrong with you?”

       “Nothin’Huck, I’m tellin’ ya! Now lemme go and stop fussin’ over me. Golly, can’t a body walk without gettin’ worried over now?” Tom yanked his arm back defensively and quickly walked ahead, ignoring the occasional stutters in his step.

       “Then how come you’re a-stumblin’ worser than Muff Potter?”

       “I told you, I’m jus’ tired is all. Stop harpin’ on it, will ya?” Tom shouted from over his shoulder, irritation evident. He always had been one to over-react and add an occasionally unnecessary dramatic flair to everything. Grumbling to himself all the while, he made his way through the town and disappeared into his home, just as the sun had finally set and candles began to light up all the windows of the houses.

       Huckleberry stood by the white-washed picket fence outside Tom’s, jaw clenching and unclenching as his mind raced, feeling dumb as dirt for worrying so much over something Tom himself said was nothing to make a fuss over. He slowly took a deep breath and huffed it all out at once, turning on his heel and quietly making his way back to the Widow’s. She and Miss Watson were most likely going to give him a long talking-to for being late to supper again, but at that moment, Huck couldn’t bring himself to dread the droning Bible talk that he knew would be coming. He couldn’t bring himself to do much at all aside from thinking about this uneasiness that wouldn’t seem to go away, no matter how much he tried to quell it.

* * *

 

       In the few weeks that followed, the two skirted around one another, trying to make it as if all was well and normal. It was easier that way; Tom wouldn’t complain about getting smothered and Huck would be able to convince himself not to worry. As the days passed and it became more evident something wasn’t quite right, others followed in playing pretend. If Tom lost his balance or stumbled, everyone acted as if they didn’t see it. If Tom mixed up words or couldn’t express himself properly like he used to, everyone acted as if they hadn’t heard it. If Tom forgot things, everyone acted as if they hadn’t noticed. If Tom winced in pain and rubbed his temples, closing his eyes and holding his head, everyone acted as if they weren’t worried senseless.

       Of course, soon enough the day came when nobody could keep pretending.

       The gang was all together, playing by the river as they so often did on Fridays after school had let out. Each of the boys had taken to grabbing sticks to use as swords, as they were playing King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, and everybody knew that a good knight needed a sword. Joe Harper had challenged Tom to a duel, and Tom had eagerly accepted. Joe was reluctant to ask, as the two were awful close friends and something didn’t seem alright with Tom that day, but once the idea of a duel was proposed, Tom insisted and wouldn’t let him back out, “ _else he was a yeller-bellied coward!”_. And so Joe and Huck and the rest of the boys pretended not to notice that Tom was a lot paler than he usually was and they pretended not to see the bags under his eyes and they pretended that he hadn’t forgotten what the word for stick was and that he hadn’t just swayed around like the world spun a mile a minute when he tried to stand up.

       “I reckon I’ll whoop you good, Joe!” Tom put forth a gapped smile despite the falter in his voice. However, anyone who knew what Tom Sawyer’s actual smile looked like would tell you this particular smile looked like a terrible copy of the real one. It was a very unsettling sight to look at.  

       “I’d like to see you try, Tom,” Joe taunted in reply, pushing any reservations he had to the back of his mind in favor of keeping Tom happy. The duel began as their friends cheered them on, all pretending not to notice the delay in Tom’s swings or how he wobbled unsteadily on his legs or how heavy his breathing became or how tired he seemed after only four or five minutes. They continued pretending until Tom was as pale as the dead and sweating an ocean, forest green eyes widening in panic as he chucked the stick to the side and swiftly stumbled over to the side of the river. He fell about three quarters of the way there and crawled the rest, upheaving anything and everything that was in his stomach the second he reached the riverside.  

       In those few seconds, the big game of pretend abruptly ended and any hopes for normalcy were shed. Tom turned into a spectacle as everyone ran to see what had happened, pushing and shoving each other out of the way to get a better look. The shouts of Huckleberry Finn and Joe Harper were loud and clear as they pushed the roused crowd back and away from their friend, cursing up a storm as they did.

       “Git back, the lotta you. Hain’t you gonna give a body the room to breathe?” Joe bellowed, the anger on the red-headed boy’s face causing the rest to quiet down and back away. Huck had knelt down next to Tom, gently putting a hand on Tom’s back as he went to lurch again, this time heaving up nothing but air. Joe and Huck exchanged a glance and nodded in silent agreement, telling the others to head on home before turning back down to Tom.

       “Com’mon Tom, we’re takin’ you back home too,” Huck said in a hushed tone. Tom shook his head no, but Joe and Huck had already taken hold of his arms and started lifting him up to help him back to his Aunt Polly’s.

       “D’you think you’re able to walk, or are Huck and me gonna have to carry you back?”

       “I don’t needs to go home, it’s just ‘cause I hain’t been sleepin’, I’m tellin’ you! Are the two of you even listenin’ to me? I’m feelin’ much better now, put me down!”

       “That’s a load of bull an’ you know it, Tom Sawyer. You’re goin’ home and you’re gonna stay there ‘til you’re able to stand on your own two feets, you hear me?” Joe asserted as he let go of Tom’s arm in favor of his legs, Huck taking both arms instead. They lifted Tom up and began to walk, struggling to hold him as he tried to squirm out of their hold. Tom fought them for a good three minutes or so before he gave up out of exhaustion. He started arguing with Joe, going back and forth with him while Huck stayed quiet—for he was too afraid and worried out of his wits to think, let alone speak.

       Eventually Tom’s arguing dwindled into petulant whining which dwindled into near silence. When they made it back to Aunt Polly’s, Tom was immediately put to bed and was given a big glass of water before his aunt and cousin Mary started asking him what was wrong. Sid, Joe, and Huck tried to listen to what was going on through the door. They heard Tom prattle on about how he started seeing two of things lately and how everything had been all spinny and how he had to try awful hard to remember all the people, places, and things that were important. He talked about how his mouth didn’t seem to work right anymore and how he couldn’t remember what the name of the thing covering him on the bed was. He began to mumble about how his head never stopped hurting and how he was always sleepy even though he was going to bed earlier and getting up later.

       Sid’s eyes, which were usually full of curiosity and self-righteousness, were teeming with tears as he kept his ear pressed to the door. For as mean as he could be Tom, he’d never wish anything awful on him. He’d certainly never wish he was crazy, or worse, dead. It was no secret that he’d tolerated, just _barely,_ the ruffians that his half-brother was always cavorting with whenever they were around—which is why it came as a surprise to him when Huck heard Sid asking him a question.

       “Huckleberry…y-you don’t think Tom’s dyin’, do you? This is just another one of his schemes or somethin’, right?”

       As he opened his mouth to reply, more noise came from the other side of the door. Mary stated that they were going to have a doctor come see Tom as soon as possible. Tom asked her what she meant because he didn’t have any idea what that was. His aunt’s sobs, painful and grief-stricken sounds, vibrated through the door with perfect clarity.

       Huck closed his mouth and wouldn’t look Sidney in the eye because he didn’t know and couldn’t bring himself to lie to him.

* * *

 

 

       The diagnosis was a tentative one at best. The doctor, a sage and kindly man in his elder years, had visited the next morning and came to the wavering conclusion that Tom had to be suffering from a very malignant form of brain fever. After listening to the boy rattle off all kinds of grim symptoms, he had pondered for a few moments before escorting Aunt Polly and Mary into their dining room, sitting both women down and explaining what he knew to the best of his ability. Their eyes were wide and anxious as they hung off the doctor’s every word, praying that whatever was wrong would pass and their Tom would recover to be the same playfully charismatic boy he’d always been. The doctor had expressed his confusion over the intensity of the symptoms, some of which he said he’d never come across before, but that stated brain fever was the only thing it could possibly be, to his knowledge.

       When asked how to treat it and how long it would be until he recovered, the kind doctor’s face saddened and his gaze fell downward, filling the room with a heavy and restless silence. His voice was tight and solemn as he spoke what was so impossible to comprehend and yet what was the only possible answer.

       “Ma’am, as much as it pains me to tell you so, I think the child is too far gone to fully recover, given how much of his mental facilities he’s already lost.  It’s a miracle if he’s able to recover at all. Perhaps if the signs had been noticed sooner there would be more that we could do but…well, the most we can do now is keep ‘em comfortable, appreciate the time we have, and pray for a miracle. Miss Polly, Miss Mary—I am terribly sorry to be the deliverer of this news.”  

       The moments that passed afterward were almost dream-like in the surrealism of it all. It was quiet and the expressions on their faces were lost and devastated, slowly crumbling like a drowning man resigning himself to his fate. Aunt Polly excused herself from the table to be alone, deteriorating into sobs as she hastily made her way upstairs. Mary thanked the doctor as she lead him to the door, holding tears of her own back with every ounce of strength she had until he was gone.

       When Sid returned from school that afternoon, both his Aunt Polly and Mary sat the boy down and repeated to him the dreadful knowledge that had become their reality. With dried tears on their cheeks, they walked into the room Tom and Sid shared to see the former sleeping soundly. The three mourned for what they knew was lost.

* * *

 

       The news spread like wild fire. In a small town like St. Petersburg, it would’ve been impossible for something so appalling and shattering to not become sensationalized within a day or so. Everyone immediately began to go out of their way to be kind and comforting to the small, broken family in any way they could. They tried to be empathetic and show their sympathies. _It’s such a shame, he was always such a special boy,_ they would all say. _I do hope he recovers, he’ll be in our prayers,_ they would all say. _We’re so sorry._

       It was always the same conversation followed by the same awkward silence. Nobody could ever find the words to say after that. It waned into uncomfortable small talk until the excruciating gesture of comfort would end and the sympathizers would go on with their lives.

       Among the children’s society, the feeling of loss resonated very deeply. At the school house Tom’s seat remained empty. The girls would weep for him and the boys couldn’t bring themselves to smile and laugh and play without him. The gang was directionless with no leader to command them. The world had less color, the clouds in the sky were formless gray blobs, and all seemed mirthless and cold.

       Each day the children would wait to hear more of Tom and his condition from those who would visit him, as there were only two people who did aside from the family that lived with him. At first they asked Sid what of him, but it took such emotional taxation on the poor thing that they took pity on him and let him be. They began talking to Joe or Huck to ask how he was--both would refuse to breathe a single word aside from “okay”. As the weeks went on, so did the children’s society, and the world continued turning. It became easier to ignore the empty seat in their school house than to acknowledge it, and so they did just that.

       However, there was one exception—Rebecca Thatcher. While Amy Lawrence and Gracie Miller and the rest of the girls moved past their stage of mourning and carried on, Becky remained transfixed on the void of dourness that planted itself where Tom’s cheerful demeanor had once been. She was downright heartbroken and began to feel restless, just sitting around doing nothing while her poor Tom was suffering so. She’d finally had enough of it and tapped Joe Harper on the shoulder as they and the other children of St. Petersburg marched off to the schoolhouse on a particularly foggy morning.

       “Excuse me Joe, may I speak to you for a moment? I need to ask you about somethin’.”

       “’Course you can, Becky. Shoot,” Joe replied in a nonchalant tone, slowing his pace slightly so she could catch up with him.

       “You and Huckleberry visit Tom every day after school lets out, ain’t that right?” He glanced at her briefly from the corner of his eye, nodding in response.

       “Yeah, we visit ‘em.”

       “D’you suppose I could come along with you?” Becky’s voice was soft and her blue eyes were imploring. With an expression such as the one that was painted upon her delicate face, it would’ve been awfully difficult to deny the girl anything. Still Joe’s eyebrows rose at the question before they furrowed in thought.

       “I reckon you could. Are you sure you’d want to go? I’m sure Tom’d have no objections to seein’ you, but it ain’t no pretty sight. He looks mighty unwell and his memory’s been gettin’ worse by the minute. Tain’t the kind of sight for young ladies.”

       Becky huffed and stopped mid-step, turning to look at Joe with an air of defiance. “I’m sure I want to go, Joe Harper. Don’t you try to convince me any different. This ain’t a matter of bein’ lady-like.”

       He chuckled and held two hands up as a sign of mock-surrender, continuing to walk ahead. “Alright, alright, don’t you git yourself all worked up now. If you want to come with us, you’re welcome to.”

       She thanked him and let him go, sighing as she watched him scamper off to the side of Gracie Miller. The girl walked the rest of the way in solitude, listening to the patter of her shoes against the pavement and remembering when there used to be the sound of two pairs of feet instead of one, with animated voices filling the silence that hung around her now. The feeling of lonesomeness was so raw and unadulterated that Becky was unsure how to cope with such an overwhelming feeling.

       As the school day began, Becky couldn’t remember a time she’d been more fidgety. Every aching minute seemed to drag on and on, it felt almost as if the day would never end. She tried to focus on her studies to make the time pass quicker, but she couldn’t stay fixated on it long enough for her to get through a few sentences of text at a time. Her anxiousness and day-dreaming caught the attention of Mr. Dobbins, who took no regret in calling attention to it and questioning why she, who was usually such a studious pupil, was behaving so poorly. On most days Becky’s cheeks would’ve reddened with embarrassment at having this pointed out to everyone before apologizing and putting her nose back in her book. This, decidedly, was not ‘most days’ and Becky couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge it with more than a shrug and a muttered “sorry, sir.”

       When they were dismissed, she launched herself off the bench and out the door as hastily as she was able, finding Huck and Joe before the three ran down to Aunt Polly’s. When they reached her house, they found her sitting with Tom on their front porch, and the two boys seemed surprised, much to Becky’s confusion. When she inquired why, Huck whispered to her that Tom hadn’t been out of the house for the past few days after he tried to wander around and nearly got lost walking down the road.

       Aunt Polly greeted them warmly and thanked the three for coming to visit Tom, adding that she was pleased to see Becky had joined the boys. The smile on her face was weak, overshadowed by the tiredness and sadness in her gentle eyes. Tom piped up that his Auntie needn’t “ _keep watchin’ him like one of them birds—hawk was it?”_ and that she could go back inside now that his friends were there.

       “I’ll stay outta trouble, I promise!”

       “Oh alright then, Tom. I’ll let you stay out until supper, then you’re comin’ back inside, you hear me?”

       “Yes’m.”

       With a bit of reluctance she walked back inside, pausing in the doorway before giving up completely and closing the door behind her.

       The second the door clicked, Tom turned to face his friends, his eyes lighting up like they hadn’t in days. “Angelfish, I was startin’ to think I’d never see your face again!” he cried in delight, and Becky smiled in response, although she saw exactly what Joe meant. His skin was paler, there were haunting purple bags under his eyes, and he was dwindling down to nothing but skin and bones. It was agonizing to see someone like Tom Sawyer like this, but she couldn’t bring herself to be so sad when he was looking at her as if he’d never been happier to see a body in his entire life.

       Huckleberry and Joe sat back and let the two speak, adding their own tid-bits as they saw fit. Huck had never necessarily been a fan of Tom’s infatuation with Becky Thatcher. He’d always talk about her, going on for ages about how pretty and sweet and lovely she was, and how when he was grown up he’d treat her better than all the treasure in the world, leaving Huck all on his lonesome again. No sir, he didn’t see any good coming from Tom going off and marrying this girl someday. He’d be boring then and have no time for adventures or fishing or any of those things since he’d be taking care of her.

Huck wasn’t fond of her, no, but it was moments like this he respected her a great lot. She smiled and conversed with him as if it didn’t hurt to see him this way and it didn’t hurt that he couldn’t remember her name, only his silly pet name for her. Just seeing Becky had made Tom happier than he’d been in days and he couldn’t bring himself to dislike her entirely, not when she made Tom light up the way he was. It was because of this, if nothing else, that Huck respected Becky Thatcher and could never, _ever_ bring himself to be anything but well-mannered to her.

“I wanna go sit under the trees! C’mon let’s go, it’s gettin’ boring here,” Tom whined, starting to make a fuss. The trio seemed reluctant to comply but decided it couldn’t do any harm if they kept him close and didn’t let him wander. Huck and Joe went next to Tom’s chair, prepared to help him walk down in case he started stumbling, and waited for him to push himself up. After a few moments passed and he didn’t, there was a need for concern.

Everyone looked down at Tom, who was looking down at his arms. His brow was creased in concentration as if he was thinking too hard or trying to do something very difficult. His arms were shaking from their place on his lap but they wouldn’t move. His face fell in befuddlement, unable to process what was going on.

“Hucky, why ain’t they doin’ what I’m tellin’ them to?” There was a hint of desperation in his voice as he looked up at them, eyes wide and frightened like a small child during a thunderstorm.

“I-I don’t know, Tom,” Huck said, his voice cracking as he responded. “I think we should get you inside now, going under the trees ain’t a smart idea.”

Joe moved to pick Tom up as Becky went to open the door, and Huck kept talking to Tom to get him to stop crying.

It was the last time Tom was allowed outside.

* * *

 

Things changed for the foulest after that incident. Tom’s state worsened very rapidly from then on out and it was very rare he was able to leave his bed. Sid had started sharing Mary’s room because it was too much on him to share a room with Tom. Tom slept a lot, through entire days sometimes, and when he was awake his speech became much more strained. The sentences became more broken and slurred. Aunt Polly and Mary started to baby-talk him a bit, but Tom was aware enough to scrunch up his nose and tell them to stop it. Sid, Joe, Becky, and Huck made their best attempts to talk to him as normally as they could. Tom’s memory became sporadic at best, but he no longer seemed to struggle to remember things. Huck figured it was because he couldn’t remember that he was forgetting anymore.

Becky didn’t visit every day like Huck and Joe did, but she did make sure to visit once a week and she always brought something nice for Tom, which never failed to make his face light up—even when he couldn’t remember her much and she dissolved into nothing but the Adored Unknown once more in his mind.  Joe still visited every day after school but stopped on the weekends, getting quieter and quitter every time he visited. Sometimes it would take Tom a moment or two to remember him.

As for Huck, he stopped going to school altogether. He sat up in a chair next to Tom’s bed all day every day until Aunt Polly dragged him out and sent him back to the Widow’s to get some sleep, and he’d be back at her doorstep again just after dawn. The Widow and Miss Watson would have given him hell for playing hooky the way he was, but neither of them could find it in themselves to feel anything but pity for the poor boy, and reluctantly let him continue. Both knew it wouldn’t be much longer any how and thought it cruel to deny the children a few last weeks of togetherness. Huckleberry Finn was the only person Tom never once stuttered in identifying.

It was difficult for Huck to accept how bad Tom had gotten until he began forgetting his family.

“Now you boys just holler if you want any more, I’ve got plenty more where this came from,” Aunt Polly said, giving each one a nice, warm slice of cherry pie. She’d said it half out of habit and half out of hopefulness, as Tom hadn’t been able to hold much of anything down the past few days. She kissed Tom on the cheek and patted Huck on the head before going about her business. A few instants passed in silence before Tom’s voice, very quiet and unsure, broke through. It was a good day for talking, it was more than he’d spoken in a while.

“…Huck?”

“Hm?”

“Was that…was that my momma who was just in here?”

Huck nearly dropped his plate at the question. Tom’s expression was worried and the question was entirely serious. It took him a moment to collect his wits before he could answer with a sure voice.

“That—no. You don’t have no momma, Tom, that was your Aunt Polly,” he said, his voice sounding foreign to his ears. At that answer, Tom looked perplexed.

“What d’you mean I don’t have no momma?”

“She’s gone, Tom, it don’t matter none. You’ve got your Aunt Polly and your Cousin Mary and your brother Sid. They’s who matter.” He nodded along to Huck’s words as if he understood and it made sense. Huck was painfully aware that despite his nodding, there was very little recognition in the depth of Tom’s eyes. It was as good as talking to a fish, but Huck made sure to keep talking all the same. “And then there’s Joe Harper, he’s your best friend. We have a lot of fun fishin’ and wrestlin’ and playin’ around with him. And Becky Thatcher—the two of you’s engaged. They matter.”

“Do they love me?”

“’Course they do. More than God himself.”

“An’ what ‘bout you?”

“I dunno, what about me, Tom?”

“Like all ‘em other people, what about you?”

“Well uh…I’m your best friend too, I reckon. I know you’re mine, but you’ve gots lotsa friends so…I guess that’s me. An’ I care ‘bout you an awful lot too.” Tom seemed content with this and quieted down for a while.

Huck couldn’t bring himself to say _love_ aloud. Of course it was quite clear that Huckleberry Finn loved Tom Sawyer as much as any boy had ever loved their best friend, but it was difficult to admit that in words. The idea of caring about another person didn’t come naturally to him as he’d grown up in an environment where nobody cared about anyone but themselves. It was a strange, vulnerable feeling.

“Tom.”

“Yes, that’s your name.”

“Tom Sawyer.”

“What in blazes are you tryin’a get at?”

“That’s me, ain’t it?”

“Who else would it be, Tom?”

“It’s fuzzy, Huck’aberry. I can’t get all m’facts straight no more. Tell me a story‘bout me. I don’t wanna forget.”

Huck took a deep breath, closing his eyes and trying frantically to collect his thoughts. A shaky, cold hand managed to grab a hold of his and Huck opened his eyes to see an imploring look from Tom. He let out all the air he had puffed up and tried his best to tell the damn best story he could—because in reality it truly was the best story there ever was. It was the story of a brave, courageous, ingenious, hell-raising boy from Missouri who went on all kinds of adventures and made all kinds of friends. Huck told Tom about all the adventures he’d had and the ones he’d always talked about having. He told Tom about all the silly things he’d planned and all the important stuff he was going to do.

He kept talking until his throat was sore and he couldn’t think of anything more to add. It wasn’t until he stopped talking that he noticed Tom had fallen asleep and that he’d been telling the grand tale of Tom Sawyer to nobody but himself.

* * *

 

Around his final days, everyone began to get tired. Not sleepy tired, mind you, although sleep would’ve been a blessing to anybody involved at that point. The tired they felt was a feeling of pointlessness and exhaustion that could be felt in their very bones. It was so tiring to go in that room and smile and talk as if they weren’t looking a young boy in the eye on his death bed. Nobody could eat, or talk, or think. Nobody could do much of anything but wait for the inevitable. It was the hardest thing any of them had ever done—to sit there and watch someone so dear to them wither away to naught while they could do not a thing about it. To keep going back even though they weren’t sure Tom was there at all anymore.

It was Joe Harper who snapped.

Of the three of Tom’s friends who visited, Joe had known him longest. They had a history with one another, one that would haunt Joe’s dreams long after the other was gone. Bosom friends for just about as long as they could remember, that’s how it went. Unfortunately, though, he was also the member of the trio with the worst temper. It wasn’t his fault that his frustrations got to him, and there wasn’t a body who would’ve blamed him for what happened, but it’s something he never quite got over.

It was late-afternoon on a Monday on the day it happened. Joe dropped by after school had let out, just as he always did, but this time there was absolutely no recognition in Tom Sawyer’s fluttering stare when his friend walked into the room. Huck saw the distress on his face right away and went to make small talk, Joe unsteadily going along with him in hopes of jogging Tom’s memory. In the past few weeks Joe had been getting quieter and his visits had been getting shorter as he wasn’t one for acting. Visiting Tom had turned into a few hours per day of lying through his teeth and watching as words continued to fail him.

“Hucky, ‘m awful sorry to interrupt your talkin’, but I don’ think I’ve ever met your friend ‘fore. ’S name?” Tom asked in a quiet voice, trying to be discreet.

“… _What_ did he just say?”

“Tain’t nothin’ Joe, he didn’t say nothin’,” Huck interjected, but the panic on his face only proved Joe’s suspicions right.

“Tom Sawyer, _how dare you_. Ain’t you got no _shame!?_ You know exactly who I am! We’ve been playin’ together for as long as I can remember. Stop jokin’ now, stop lyin’, Tom. It ain’t funny. _Cut. It. Out.”_

Tom’s face scrunched up in puzzlement and he remained silent for a second or two. “Huck what’s—“

“Oh but _‘course_ you remember Finn, don’t you? You ain’t been friends with him half as long, Tom. Ain’t you got no _loyalty?_ You never were one for stickin’ to rules but this is downright dirty, this is. I never done you wrong, _not once_ , but suddenly none of that matters anymore, does it? Well I won’t stand for it, no sir, I won’t stand here for another minute. Shame on you, Sawyer, ya dirty liar,” Joe was shouting between hiccups and snivels, trying so hard to keep a hard stature and falling to pieces instead. With a shout over his shoulder, he shot up and out of the room. “Have a nice life, Tom,‘cause I’m sure as heck done tryn’a be in it!”

Tom looked dumbstruck and his eyes were watering up but he couldn’t figure out why. He turned to look at Huck and ask him why his heart was hurting him so much and why there was water coming from his eyes, because Huck always knew the answer to all of Tom’s questions, but he was distraught when he found Huck wasn’t beside him. He heard his voice shouting from outside and figured that he must’ve followed the familiar stranger where ever he’d gone.

It’d been so long since Tom had moved from his bed that he couldn’t recall ever doing so. To him, everything he could remember happened while he was on this bed in this room. Still, he put all his effort into sitting himself up and pushing himself off the bed and flailing to the window sill. The window was open and he could see Huck grabbing the visitor down below by the arm and yanking him back, yelling as loud as his vocal cords would allow.

“Joe! Joe Harper, you stop runnin’ away like a coward and come back here this damned second! How could you? How could you look at Tom like that and say such awful, mean things to ‘em? You knows as well as I do that it ain’t his fault. You think he wanted to forget that stuff, Joe? He can’t even remember who _he is_ anymore without me remindin’ him. He don’t ‘member me, not really, he just knows me ‘cause I almost never leave ‘em on his lonesome. What possessed you to treat him so mean?”

“Because that ain’t Tom Sawyer in that room anymore, Huckleberry Finn, and you know it ain’t,” Joe hissed in reply, wiping the tears from his eyes with his sleeves. “It sorta looks like him and it sorta sounds like him but it ain’t him. There’s nobody home in his head, Huck. I can’t stand sittin’ there actin’ like I’m with my best friend anymore because I’m not. I can’t do it. It’s all but killin’ me to keep doin’ it. I never meant him no harm, honest Injun, but it hurts me real bad to see him that way. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t. It just… _he’s not Tom._ ”

Huck nodded after a moment, saying nothing. He understood, angry as he was.

“T-tell him I’m sorry…and that I’ll miss him,” Joe’s voice was barely above a whisper. Huck promised that he would and told him to go home and not worry about having to come visit anymore. As Joe started walking back, he paused and turned back one last time, tossing a question over his shoulder.

“D’you think he’d forgive me, Huck? He wouldn’t hate me?”

“Of course he would have forgiven you, Joe. You’re his best friend. You know that.”

Joe nodded, turned, and kept walking. Huck stood and watched him go until he could barely make him out as a speck, letting his mind drift through all the things that’d been said. A yelp of pain followed by a scream from one of the upstairs windows—Tom’s window to be exact--snapped Huck out of it very fast and if you asked him, Huck would tell you he’d never ran more swiftly in his entire life. Tom was alone in that house, his family had went down to the market after Huck had reassured them he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to Tom if they got out of the house for a little while.

He found Tom throwing a tantrum like a mad man, rolling around on the floor, screaming, and seemingly tangled up in the curtains he’d managed to pull off the rod. A few questions crossed his mind, like how Tom managed to get out of the bed all by himself, but he shoved it to the back of his head in favor of getting him to calm down and stop screeching like a banshee.

“Shucks Tom, come now, quiet down. We’ll get you untangled real quick, just stop squirmin’—hey I said—ow, the hell was that fer?”

“Lemme alone! I don’t need no help, I ain’t no baby, lemme alone!” Tom was shouting and biting, struggling to move but soon enough he lost the energy to do so and remained a motionless heap. It was eerily quiet after that, like the eye of an ominous storm just before things took a turn for the worse.

“If you’re done makin’ such a fuss now, would you let me help you ‘steada raisin’ hell with your shrill screamin’?” Huck expected a slight smile, maybe even some banter like Tom would’ve replied with before he got sick, but instead he found Tom stoically staring at him. He was so used to seeing Tom’s eyes alight that it chilled him to the bone to see bleak and utter hopelessness where a bright flame used to burn.  His friend’s mouth was set in a straight line and it was only then that Huck really looked at his face and saw that he was more tired than any of them.

Huck untangled him from the curtain and hoisted him up off the floor, trying to ignore how desperately Tom was clinging to his shirt. When he put Tom back down on his bed, he tried to pry Tom’s hands off his shirt but he only wrung the fabric tighter in his shaking fists. Huck forced himself to look up and what he saw was the equivalent of a thousand stabbings to the heart.

Tom’s eyes were flooding up with tears again but this time there were no angry shouts behind them. What Huckleberry saw was not the Tom Sawyer he knew, someone full of poise and resourcefulness, someone destined to end up a story book hero with a life full of glory and victory. No, that boy had been gone for a while, what he saw remaining was a sad, scared little boy alone in the dark. A child grasping to regain what he can’t remember losing. The lingering shell of a lively boy he’d once called his best friend, who was barely recognizable as the person who once wore his face and bared his name. What he saw was a boy dying an unromantic death, unable to do a thing by himself or remember the life he lived or maintain his dignity. He saw the boy who should have had the grandest death of all, dying the most pitiful one.

And so Huck let Tom cry to his heart’s content. He let Tom bury his face in his chest and cry for every ounce of pain, frustration, humiliation, and loss he’d suffered. He let Tom cry for what should’ve been and would never be. He let Tom cry until he couldn’t cry anymore, his sobs dissolving into hiccups and eventually succumbing to silence.

The two stayed that way awhile afterward, Tom clinging to Huck for dear life and Huck letting him, combing his fingers lightly through his friend’s ridiculously curly hair. Their voices were mumbles as they spoke, barely above a whisper.

“Huck?”

“Hm?”

“I-I’m scared, Huck. I don’t wanna go an’ fade away. I can’t see nuthin’ no more, Huck, m’scared, why can’t I see anythin’ no more? ”

“I don’t want you to leave,” he choked out, wrapping his arms around Tom and holding him in a strong grip. He thought for a few moments and wondered if he’d go to hell if he lied to Tom while he was like this, and decided sometimes lies work best when the truth is too cruel. “I don’t know, Tom, ‘m sorry. You don’t need to be scared though, ‘cause ‘m here and yer family’s here and it’ll all be okay—I promise.”

“How you talk, Huckleberry Finn. I may be dyin’ but I ain’t dumb. It ain’t nice to lie to yer best friend. And it’s even worser to make promises you can’t keep.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Tain’t yer fault. Y’know it’s funny. I always felt like dyin’d be a fine adventure. It ain’t.”

“What’s it like?”

“It just is…ain’t no way to describe it.”

They fell into an easy silence again and the sun began to set outside. Tom let out a big yawn and his eyelids started to get heavy.

“M’ tired. Tell me a story, Hucky.”

“You always told the best stories, Tom, I’ve told you all the good ones I have.”

“Then make one up.”

Huck told the story of two best friends drifting down the river, doing whatever they wanted and going where ever they wanted to. He talked of detectives and flying machines and making friends with the Devil until Tom has dozed off. He loosened Tom’s grip on his shirt with no protest more than a whimper, tucked him in, and left the house without a word to the returning family just as dusk fell.

Huck ran down to their old fishing spot and wept like he never had his whole life. Tears wouldn’t stop pouring down his face and each sob rippled through his body like a tidal wave. He couldn’t calm himself down fully until the sun had started rising again, breaking over the horizon and shimmering on the water at his feet. Sniffling, he tried to pray and wondered if anyone was really listening.

* * *

 

Tom Sawyer died that Tuesday night in his sleep.

There was no glory in his death.

* * *

 

It wasn’t surprising that everyone in town came to the funeral. For someone so young, Tom had managed to make a huge impression on his fellow townsfolk and there was some sting of loss for all.

Tom’s family sat in the front, behind them was the Harper family, and across from them were the Thatchers. Joe looked as guilty as a convict at his court hearing and Becky looked as if she could cry a river mightier than the Mississippi. The Sawyers were solemn and damaged, each mourning what they’d lost and relying on the others to heal.

Huck sat in the back of the Church, away from the rest of the congregation. He couldn’t handle their apologies and constant looks of pity, as if they could’ve done something to save him. There was nothing that could’ve been done. Huck would know—he spent months trying to think of a way to do so. He might not have had all the style Tom did, but Huck was quick enough to get himself and his partner in crime out of trouble when he needed to.

Except this once.

The reverend babbled on and on about Tom’s life as if he knew a thing about it, as if he hadn’t mentally damned Tom to hell every time the boy had gone and whipped up some mischief. It made Huck feel sick to his stomach. The room was suffocating and the white noise of the crying women and children around was deafening. It felt as if the whole world was caving in around him and he could do nothing but watch as everything crumbled apart.

The situation didn’t feel real to Huckleberry. It was like a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from and it refused to sink in that this scene was his reality. That it wasn’t one of Tom’s elaborate schemes. That he wasn’t watching them all and laughing at the absurdity of the whole service like last time. That it was Tom’s body in that coffin. That he would never hear his voice or his laugh again. That he wouldn’t see him smile or cry or get that look on his face that meant they were going on an adventure again. That Tom Sawyer no longer existed on this earth. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t seem possible…and yet it was the truth.

Tom was gone.

He was never coming back.

Huck was so gone in his head he hadn’t noticed the service ended until he found himself alone in the Church with Sid’s voice ringing in his ears. He turned, bewildered, to face Sid with wide eyes.

“Jesus, Sid, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Huckleberry Finn. I’ve been trying to get your attention for a good five minutes now. Nevermind when Becky and Joe and the Widow tried to get your attention.”

“’M sorry, I’m just a bit…out of it.”

“I suppose we all are, can’t blame you much,” Sid agreed, his voice a bit hoarse and tired sounding. “I do have one question for you though.”

“Do you now?” Huck commented, trying his best to forget the last time Sid had ever looked to him to answer any questions.

“Where were you on Tuesday? During the day I mean. Before he… y’know.”

“What’s it matter?”

“He was askin’ for you. Threw a fit and wouldn’t listen to nobody else, none of us could get him to calm down. He didn’t want to see nobody but you. I-I think you were the only person left that he could really remember. He looked so afraid when he…I…why weren’t you there?”

“Y-y’know I’m no good at goodbyes. I couldn’t have done it, Sid,” Huck stuttered, hiding his guilt behind a semi-truthful excuse. He could have said goodbye. He didn’t. It would’ve made it too real and he couldn’t come to terms with it.

“He needed you, Huckleberry. Least you could’ve done was try. For his sake,” Sid spoke, shaking his head and walking out of the Church without so much as a goodbye.

* * *

 

The conclusion of the end was quick. It ended just as summer gave way to fall, the skies still painted a clear blue dotted with white patches of fluff, the crunching of leaves under the soles of shoes replacing the crunch of grass under bare feet, and the harmony of churning water and children’s laughter still humming their  lovely tune. On this day, there was one young boy sitting alone by the river.

He had built a raft, the finest one had ever seen, and was loading it up with all kinds of treasures. It was peppered with marbles, a baseball, the shiniest doorknob one ever saw, an old paintbrush, a pact signed in blood, jars full of creeping critters, and mountains of story books, each once beloved and treasured by an absent figure who left them behind. The boy had found them all hidden underneath the floorboards of his former companion’s room, just as he’d always said. He hung up a lovely red flag for the finishing touch and stood back to look at his handiwork.

There was only one last thing to add. Placed inside the cover of the book on the top, the one that looked the most read and adored, was a letter. The note was a bit difficult to read, but all the important parts were clear. The letter told the story of a boy from a small town in Missouri who was full of life and was bound to have the greatest adventures had he lived to do so. It said that since the boy himself could not, that the things he loved most in the world would have a journey all their own, and that perhaps in some world, that could make up for what was lost.

Huck looked at his tribute and his face cracked into a mirthless grin. It seemed very fitting to him, most definitely a homage worthy of Tom Sawyer. He cut the rope that was holding the raft down and pushed it down the river, sending with it a childhood innocence that could not be salvaged and memories that would never cease to leave an aching in his chest.

“See you around, Tom.”

And some day, after many years of having adventures of his own, he did. 

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. Hope you enjoyed it and please, if you have any (hopefully not as sad) prompts, send me a message!


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